


Hold

by Woofemus



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: During Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woofemus/pseuds/Woofemus
Summary: Khadein is hot.





	Hold

**Author's Note:**

> takes place during FE12, and I took some liberties with the scene and dialogue because I can't remember the exact thing anymore

Michalis hadn't left her with much other than a few bites of bread he happened to have on him as they rode toward Khadein. Perhaps he hadn't expected how terrible her state would have been once he took her from the rebels, or his mind had been otherwise occupied by things farther beyond Minerva. He was never one to think too hard on the little details once he focused on a goal.

Her brother had always been like that.

Past the sneers he sent toward her, he spoke very little, only muttering under his breath to himself. Minerva tried to listen but the wind rushing past as they soared through the air took away all his words.

Was he still angry about his bitter defeat two years ago? Was he furious at Minerva’s poor attempt at governing and what she had done to Macedon? Was he disappointed in the way she allowed herself to be caught by rebels and jailed so shamelessly before them? 

She wanted to ask, wanted to know... if there could be some way that they could fix… fix… whatever it’d been that shattered between them, then...

But Minerva could draw no courage from herself to speak. Being jailed and left in solitary gave Minerva more than enough time to stew in her thoughts, gave her more than enough time to wonder where it all gone wrong, gave her more than enough time to realize she was only a fool who could only follow in the footsteps of her brother. 

This, is why she is so weak, Minerva thinks.

He left her in the middle of Khadein, underneath the shade of a lone tree. When she jumped down and looked up at him, she thought his expression softened, but it might have been a trick of her mind, or the glare from the sun making her see things. When she blinked, his expression was hardened once again. 

“I can’t take you any further. I have my own goals, as do you. The Altean army will pass through here soon.” He looks down at her from atop his wyvern, regarding her with steeled eyes. Minerva tries to meet his gaze, but she can hardly muster the fire that he has. 

It makes her remember, of two years ago, that fateful day in Macedon, when she was the one atop her own wyvern after she meted out his punishment, staring down at him with bitter righteousness, watching as the fire slowly faded from his eyes.

What is it that brought them back? What is there that remains for her brother to do? 

Why… does he refuse to walk the same path as her? 

Michalis turned away from her then. “Don’t let yourself die here, Minerva, Maria still needs you,” he only said, and before she could even answer him, his wyvern took to the air. Minerva could only watch him leave, cursing that the words to ask him to stay and fight by her side were caught at the back of her throat. When she could no longer see him in the horizon, the courage to speak finally comes to her. 

“Maria… needs us both,” she whispers.

Only the lonely howl of the wind answers her. 

Now, she is here, lost and wandering through the desert. Idleness while more pressing matters lurk in the background have never been one of her virtues, but… trying to traverse through a desert, especially as weak as she is... perhaps it is the heat, and the hunger, and her disgrace at rebel hands, that have addled her mind more than she thought. What else could make her think setting out under a burning sun with nary any nourishment and her body weak from imprisonment was a good idea? When she looks behind her, she can no longer see the place Michalis had left her at. 

All she can do is go forward and pray to Naga for a sliver of hope. 

The sun scorches through Minerva’s clothes to her skin, bearing down its fearsome might upon her. For one used to more mild climates, the heat is nearly unbearable. Sweat drips down her face, falling upon the sand to instantly evaporate. A wind blows but it is arid and seems to do nothing but get sand stuck in her mouth. 

Minerva reaches up and wipes away the sweat with the back of her hand while spitting out sand. Even those simple actions makes her feel far more exhausted than it normally would, as her hand falls back down at her side. Her hands are no longer shackled but they still feel just as heavy. The heat is draining her.

She can barely stay awake. The urge to succumb is almost irresistible now. It would be easy to lay down upon the sand and let Naga herself decide her fate. 

_No._

She cannot. 

Macedon may be ruined, but there is still one more light in the world for her to save. 

“Maria,” she breathes, as if the very name of her sister can grant her the fortitude to bear through her trials. _For Maria,_ she tells herself. _For Maria, I need to find her still, for Maria, I cannot leave her alone, for Maria_ —the mantra drives her to lift each foot after another. 

Still, her strength is… weak. Michalis had been… kind, so to say, to find and return Hauteclere for her, but as she is now, she can hardly lift it for a swing. It takes her all to even carry her weapon in her hands. An instrument of war though it may be, it has been her partner for several long years already, she respects it too much to allow herself to drag it through the sand. 

… what a foolish thing to be worried about when Minerva is on the verge of perishing right here. 

A particularly strong gust gives Minerva pause as she immediately hides her face behind an arm. She’s learned firsthand that sand in one’s eyes is painful, and she wants to lessen those experiences. When it dies down, Minerva looks ahead of her, at the endless desert that seems to stretch for eternity. 

_For Maria_ , she tells herself again.

She takes a step forward, trying not to think about how heavy her body feels. The heat gets more and more unbearable with each step she takes. It's sweltering. Her vision is getting blurry and she's unsure whether it is the heat or malnourishment. It must be both, she guesses. With how long she spent locked in a cell, unable to stretch or move, her body, right now, is at its weakest.

And, her mind, as well. 

Perhaps that’s why she must be imagining that lone figure ahead of her.

She can glimpse a sword. An enemy? A friend? No, better to think there are only enemies here. Khadein is home to the mages and scholars, but since being jailed, Minerva knows little of Macedon’s affairs, of what tenuous relations she worked to build that the usurpers might have foolishly destroyed. 

An enemy. Better to assume. Minerva stands her ground, panting as she grips Hauteclere with both her hands. She can barely lift it, but to die without even retaliating, the thought stings Minerva more than she cares to admit. 

But, perhaps, this is the fate for someone who has failed so much as her...

Minerva’s grip grows slack. Hauteclere precariously tilts downward. 

The figure draws closer. It looks like they’re running toward her, waving their arm. Minerva is trying to get a look at them, sees their blue cape swishing behind them from the blow of the winds. The sword in their hands is unique, a familiar hilt she once used to glimpse as she rode alongside in battle with—

Prince Marth. 

“Princess Minerva!” he shouts as soon as he reaches her. He gently places a hand on her shoulder, looks so concerned for her that it nearly makes her sick. When was the last time she saw someone look at her that way? Her jailers had only scoffed and spat at her, told her she failed in every way and would never amount to Michalis. 

She agreed with them.

“Prince… Marth,” Minerva says, or at least tries to. Her voice is a rasp, a dry gasp lost to the winds. Prince Marth is saying something, or at least Minerva thinks he is. She can see his mouth moving but barely hear his words. Is he too far away, or can Minerva barely hear him? She doesn't know. Perhaps, the heat has fried her mind so much that she’s gone and dreamed up Prince Marth in her madness.

He stops then, looks at her oddly before turning around, waving his arm in the air. To who, Minerva cannot see. She can barely turn her head to look up at the sky, and her eyes are too weak to even glimpse past the glare of the sun anyway. 

But she can hear the faint neigh of a pegasus. The familiar sound lifts her heart more than she realizes. 

In fact… that neigh does sound … rather… familiar… 

Minerva squints at the pegasus that's suddenly there, a flutter of white feathers and movement. It whinnies loudly as it stops in front of her. Without even waiting for it to halt completely, its rider immediately throws herself off its saddle and scrambles toward her. 

“Commander!”

Perhaps Minerva really is delirious now. But, there’s no mistaking a face Minerva didn’t realize she also longed to see. The shock and unexpectedness of everything makes Minerva weak, and she cannot help but collapse to her knees. 

“Minerva!” 

Minerva’s barely aware of something—rather, some _one_ grabbing a hold of her. She nearly falls backward but arms wrap around her and keep her steady. A hand pushes her head, so she can lean against something hard—armor, she’s realizing. There’s something in front of her, a curtain of green—

Minerva blinks, and focuses her eyes. 

“P-Palla?” she croaks, throat too parched to even fully voice her name. Palla hisses something that sounds like a curse through her teeth. Minerva's brow pulls together at that. Palla’s never been one to swear. 

Minerva is too weak to do anything else but stare. Her eyes can barely focus, vision swimming and head spinning, but she’s _trying_ , aching deeply to look upon another familiar face especially one as Palla’s. 

Palla’s expression falls and she starts fumbling at her belt. Within seconds, Palla is holding out a canteen for her, but Minerva, so weak and exhausted, can barely lift a hand to help her. Palla whispers something to her, words that sound vaguely like an apology. A hand comes to the back of Minerva’s neck, tilting her head back before something cool touches her lips. 

Water flows into Minerva’s mouth. It feels like salvation for her battered soul. She drinks greedily, not caring if the water splashes down her mouth. Palla is murmuring something but Minerva can hardly concentrate on her, not when she's trying to soothe her famished body. 

Finally, Minerva pushes away the canteen and shakes her head, breathing hard now. Palla sets its down, somewhere away. She takes one of Minerva's hands, her thumb rubbing slow careful circles over her once-bound wrists. 

Now, she’s a little more aware, of Palla, and how heavily she's leaning into her. Minerva still feels hot, burnt from all the heat, but at her side, Palla is warm, a different sensation from the sun that’s been scorching her. She wants to lean more into Palla, pull her close and close her eyes and drift away. She’s starved, Minerva understands, but she’s never felt it at this worst before. 

But the way Minerva is displaying her own weakness so brazenly… it shames her. Palla does not need to bear any of this, Minerva would allow not allow her to. This is Minerva's own failure. She cannot push her troubles upon her knights, much less Palla. She could never do that to her. 

“I’m sorry,” Minerva says, a reflex at this point. Palla shakes her head, but Minerva refuses to allow Palla to forgive her. How can she, when Minerva can barely forgive herself? She shifts to pull away but Palla tightens her grip. When Minerva finally stills her movements, Palla reaches up with a hand, tenderly placing it upon Minerva’s cheek. 

Minerva's breath catches. 

“Forgive us, Miner—Commander, for not rushing to save you earlier. By the time we liberated Macedon, all we heard were whispers that you were on your dying breath, and that Michalis had come back and taken you away. I… I feared the worst… and… but...” Palla doesn’t finish, trailing off in a shaking breath. The tremble she can hear in Palla’s voice and the way her hands tighten their grip on Minerva tell her everything she needs to know. 

It is what breaks the rest of Minerva’s reservations, finally allows herself to sink into Palla’s embrace fully. She finally drops Hauteclere to the sand and instead grips Palla tight as she pulls her close. Her hands, weak and bruised and aching, hold to Palla with a desperate resolve. 

She knows Prince Marth is still there, but she cares little for decorum right now. Ashamed, broken, and undignified, and now, with Palla’s anguish bearing down upon her… Minerva has never felt her most powerless than in this moment. 

“I’m so glad that you’re alright—no, I-I mean, you're obviously not, but you're fine, right now, I-I’m sorry, I wanted to…” Palla’s stammering is almost uncharacteristic of her, but, neither is Minerva who clings so tightly to Palla. They’ve both never been one for physical comfort, especially between the two of them, but they both need this. 

“I’m still here,” Minerva breathes, and Palla answers by pulling her closer.


End file.
